


Though wise men at their end know dark is right

by mygalfriday (BrinneyFriday)



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-09
Updated: 2013-05-09
Packaged: 2017-12-10 20:27:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/789815
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrinneyFriday/pseuds/mygalfriday
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He doesn’t fret as she ducks out from behind their makeshift barricade amidst a hale of bullets and returns fire. She’ll be fine. She’ll always be fine. Until the day she isn’t.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Though wise men at their end know dark is right

**Author's Note:**

> Story title from Do not go gentle into that good night by Dylan Thomas.

He worries about a lot of things – his companions’ safety, the Daleks, running into Liz I again, the secret room on the TARDIS where he keeps all his hats he has nightmares about accidentally deleting, the _Daleks_ , that feeling he gets when he looks at River sometimes – like he can _feel_ time slipping through his fingers… has he mentioned the Daleks?

 

The Doctor worries about a lot of things but one thing he never has to worry about is River. She’s more than capable of looking after herself and more often than not, she’s the one looking after him as well. There’s no point in worrying about River, not when he knows the bitter end of her life. Which is why he doesn’t fret as she ducks out from behind their makeshift barricade amidst a hale of bullets and returns fire. She’ll be fine. She’ll always be fine. Until the day she isn’t.

 

He doesn’t like to think about that day. It makes it difficult to do anything other than think about his sudden inability to breathe. And right now, he needs to think about more than breathing – such as how to stop the war that has broken out on 52nd century Anhura with as little casualties as possible. And then he’s going to take River to that dinner he promised her. Really, it’s amazing what landing just a few decades off gets you.

 

River ducks behind the barricade once more with a lithe, graceful roll, blowing a curl out of her face with a weary sigh. “Well?” She prompts.

 

He fidgets, mind racing.

 

An explosion rocks their temporary shelter and sends debris raining down on them. River tackles him to the ground and covers his body with hers, protecting him from the worst of the blast. It’s dark and he feels a bit like a miffed about being treated like a fragile human but her cleavage is in his face so he’s hardly complaining. Still, ideas are not forthcoming in this situation. Well, not useful ones.

 

As the world around them settles back into more manageable chaos, River grits out, “A plan would be lovely right now, sweetie.”

 

His reply is lost to her cleavage, his lips moving against the soft, smooth, rounded side of her breast. Again, not complaining.

 

“Oh for god’s sake,” River grumbles, climbing off him. Crawling on her hands and knees back to her post, she peers over the barricade and curls her fingers tight around her gun, using her free hand to dip between her breasts and wipe away saliva. “You were saying?”

 

Flushing brightly, the Doctor clears his throat and tugs at the tattered lapels of his purple coat; incredibly relieved Clara is still sleeping on the TARDIS. She’d never let him forget this. “I _said_ we could form a coup. Worked for Napoleon.”

 

River throws a glance of disbelief over his shoulder and he looks behind them at the frightened women and children in their care, huddled together and watching them with wide eyes. The Doctor coughs and scratches his cheek. “Erm, right. Not a coup then.”

 

Reaching out with lightening reflexes, River grips the front of his coat, yanking him forcefully toward her, and a bullet just misses his ear, whizzing past at alarming speed. The Doctor yelps and cups his ear protectively, offering River a grudgingly grateful look. He would have moved in time. She’s so impatient.

 

“We could shoot their leader.”

 

He gives her an unimpressed glance that River looks equally unimpressed by. “Murder won’t stop a war, River. It’ll only progress it.”

 

She hums, resting her gun against her shoulder. “I could shoot him in the kneecap,” she offers. “Then we could kidnap him and drop him off in 10,000 BC.” She tosses him a wicked grin. “You’ve got to admit, he’d make an excellent Neanderthal.”

 

The Doctor smirks and she winks back. Sweaty, dirty, and disheveled in her torn evening dress, she is absolutely glorious, like his very own goddess of warfare. There are moments; small, infinitesimal niches carved out of time, when the Doctor falls in love with River Song all over again, unrepentantly head over feet. This is one of those moments.

 

Another explosion rocks the ground and the people behind them whimper in fear. The Doctor blinks and glances away from the sight of his wife, adjusting his bowtie. “Okay. Here’s what we do -”

 

“Amon!”

 

The small, fretful cry startles the Doctor into silence and he turns just in time to see a little girl of about five years tear herself from her mother’s arms and shoot off straight into the crossfire. “Nuit, no!” Her mother screams, moving to dart after her, but the Doctor holds her back, using all his strength to hold her. The little girl doesn’t hear her; she only has eyes for the little brown dog who has wandered into the line of fire.

 

“You can’t help her,” he soothes. “You’ll be killed.”

 

He glances at River only to find her already scrambling out from behind the barrier, heading right for the child kneeling in the dirt, coaxing her dog to her with an outstretched hand. The ground shakes with another explosion, this one nearer than ever, and the girl loses her balance, toppling over. River makes her way to her quickly, the muscles of her gun arm rippling as she fires shot after shot, ducking and rolling to avoid being hit. Watching her is like watching art in action. The Doctor can’t help the proud thrill that settles over him as she runs, panther-like in all her movements.

 

She pauses only a moment, stiffening, and with her back to him, he can’t see what caused her to stop, only that for the briefest second, her fingers loosen around her gun and her whole body shudders. But then he blinks and she’s moving again, scooping up the little girl and her puppy, turning on her heel to run back to safety. The Doctor beams gleefully the moment she’s close enough to see his face but she doesn’t return it with her usual triumphant, exhilarated smirk.

 

Instead, her body jerks again, and this time, she stumbles. He watches as she stands frozen, the strangest expression on her face. What is she -?

 

River whispers something to the little girl, who scrambles from her arms with her puppy, crying as she runs the rest of the way back and launches herself into her mother’s arms. Without her blocking River from his view, the Doctor finally sees and the bottom drops out of his world.

 

River has been shot – twice. Crimson stains blossom in two separate spots on her tattered dress, the one she’d looked so resplendent in only hours ago, one at her abdomen and the other – oh god, the other is right over one of her hearts. She looks down as if in shock, touching the tips of her fingers to her stomach and staining them bright, sickening red. She sways for a moment before sinking to her knees, and the Doctor’s hearts seize in his chest.

 

“ _No_!”

 

The fierce, shrill, heartbroken sound is ripped from his throat like a war cry and around him, the battlefield and the warring factions of each side fall silent, frozen in place at the unearthly roar. Heedless of everyone else, the Doctor stumbles out from the barricade and to River’s side, throwing himself down into the mud beside her just as she collapses.

 

Hand behind her head and hearts firmly lodged in his throat, he lowers her carefully to the ground and hovers over her, trying not to panic. “River,” he chokes. “River, look at me.”

 

Her eyes flutter open weakly. “The girl?”

 

“She’s fine, you saved her.” He smiles tremulously at her, smoothing the curls away from her forehead. “Hey, there you are. Keep your eyes open, honey.”

 

“I’m fine,” she mumbles.

 

“Course you are,” he sniffles.

 

“Don’t fuss then.”

 

He chokes out a soft, strangled laugh. “When my wife is bleeding all over me in the middle of a battlefield, I reserve the right to fuss.”

 

She huffs softly, eyes pained. “So dramatic.” A wave of pain catches her off guard and she cries out, reaching out on instinct to clutch at him.

 

“Shh, I know.” Tears sting his eyes but he blinks them away furiously. “I’ll fix it, I swear.” Her eyes close again and she mutters incoherently. “No, no. River. Keep your eyes open.” He cups her face with a shaking hand. “You don’t die here. I know you don’t. Just hold on, sweetheart.”

 

His hands flutter uselessly over her blood-stained bodice before he finally remembers he has a sonic screwdriver and he reaches into his jacket pocket to yank it out even as his eyes rove worriedly over her face, taking in the deathly pallor to her skin, her labored breathing, and the blood dotting her lips as she coughs wetly.

 

It isn’t good. But it can’t be too bad either. It isn’t her time yet.

 

_But time can be rewritten._

 

He shakes his head, flipping open his sonic. _Not all of it_.

 

“River, no, open your eyes.” He slaps her cheek gently and when she forces her eyes open to glare weakly, he smiles. “Ah, there’s a good girl.” Glancing down when his sonic beeps, he studies the readings with a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach.

 

No.

 

It can’t be.

 

“That bad, hm?”

 

Startled, he raises his eyes from the sonic to River’s ashen face, feeling his own pale in return. “What? No. It’s -”

 

“Liar.” She tries to smile but it’s more of a pained grimace that absolutely terrifies him. “N-need to tell you something.”

 

He clenches his jaw. “Don’t.”

 

“Have to. Y-you told me to wait for the right time.” She smiles wryly. “I suppose this is it.”

 

“Don’t,” he says again, his voice choked with tears. “You have plenty of time to tell me, honey. You’re going to be fine.”

 

“Why?” She watches him sadly. “Because I still have to go to the Library?”

 

He feels all the blood drain from his face as he stares down at her, watching as she grits her teeth against the pain. She coughs again and the movement aggravates her wounds, making her cry out, blood flecking her lips. “River?” He breathes, his eyes wide and his whole body shaking.

 

Slowly, she reaches out a violently trembling hand to cup his cheek, and for a fleeting moment, there is no pain in her eyes, only tenderness. “You saved me, my love. Or you will do.”

 

His first reaction is denial.

 

It can’t be true; it’s too good, too wonderful to be true.

 

And then he remembers. When he’d picked her up, they didn’t do diaries. She hadn’t mentioned them once and when he thinks about it, he realizes she hadn’t even brought it with her in Manhattan. She didn’t need it anymore. _Oh_.

 

Immediate, uncontainable joy fills him like sunlight. He’s been working for ages to find a better solution, knowing as more time passes in his marriage that instead of giving River an afterlife, he’d merely condemned her to eternity in another prison. So he’d found a way, then. He’d really, truly saved her. It’s a giddy rush that leaves him as quickly as it came as cold, hard reality washes over him.

 

His River, saved from the Library and so very mortal, is dying.

 

The smile drops from his face and he stares at her in horror.

 

No.

 

_No no no no no no no._

 

He does not get her back only to lose her again. The universe can’t be spiteful enough to make him watch her die twice. Oh but it is. He learned a very long time ago how little the universe cares about him or those he loves. And one day, maybe he’ll stop feeling so betrayed at its cruelty. Tasting bile in the back of his throat, he reaches up a hand to his cheek and grasps River’s fingers tightly in his own. He swallows and licks his lips. “How long ago? For you?”

 

“Long enough.” She whimpers and the sound is so utterly foreign coming from her that hot tears spring to his eyes once more. “You’ve got so much more to come, my love.”

 

“No,” he snaps harshly, dropping her hand like it burns. “Don’t say that to me. Not again. Don’t you _dare_ say goodbye to me again, River Song.”

 

Dress soaked in her own blood and her small form – god, she has never looked so very tiny before – shaking violently, River grits her teeth against another wave of pain, tears slipping from her eyes and into her hair as her thumb rubs gently over his cheek. “I’m glad it’s you this time. My Doctor.”

 

“Stop it, River.” He shakes his head quickly, reaching for her torn and bloodied bodice. “I said I would fix this, didn’t I? You trust me, don’t you?” Without waiting for her reply, he bends his head and kisses her trembling mouth, tasting the copper tang of blood as he concentrates, drawing golden light to his fingertips. He pulls back and murmurs, “You’re going to feel embarrassingly dramatic in a moment, Song.”

 

Her eyes soften in pained amusement but she says nothing.

 

Slowly, and with infinite gentleness, he presses both of his hands to her wounds, fully prepared to face her wrath the moment his lives start to trickle away bit by golden bit, the way hers had in Berlin, the way he’d done on such a small scale in Manhattan. It’s his turn for a big gesture now and that thought fills him with elation. They’ll be on equal footing, he and his River.

 

Except… nothing happens. The golden glow of his regeneration energy remains but River’s wounds do not heal. He cannot feel his lives bleeding away and into her, his essence flooding her veins. It isn’t working.

 

Why isn’t it working?

 

He makes a distraught, panicked noise in the back of his throat and when he glances helplessly to River, she only watches him knowingly. With dawning comprehension but not quite willing to believe she would do this to him, he speaks around the lump in his throat. “What did you do?”

 

“Manhattan,” she whispers, her voice fading fast. “Stupid. No more.”

 

“What?”

 

No. She wouldn’t.

 

They’re his lives – she may have given them to him but they’re his now and he’ll decide what he does with them. He tries again. And again. And again.

 

Blood pools and congeals in the slick mud beneath them, his brow shines with a sheen of sweat from his efforts but River’s breathing remains shallow and uneven, her wounds continue to seep blood, and her jaw clenches tightly against the pain as she stubbornly forces her weak body to refuse his help.

 

“River,” he hisses, furious and terrified. “Stop being so bloody-minded and let me heal you!”

 

She shakes her head once, tears in her eyes.

 

He growls. “If you don’t let me do this, you’re going to die. Is that what you want?”

 

_It’s my time, sweetie._

 

Her voice is so clear and so strong that for a moment, he deceives himself into thinking she is somehow miraculously getting better before he realizes she has merely lost the strength to speak. She’s communicating telepathically instead. The knowledge drains him of his fury all at once and tears fill his eyes as he drops his head to the crook of her neck, clutching at her arms until his knuckles ache with the strain. “Please, River. Please. You can’t leave me again.”

 

Weak, trembling fingers find their way into his hair. _We all die someday, my love._

 

“Not you,” he speaks fiercely into her neck, choking back a pleading sob as he lifts his head. “Not without me. Remember what your mum said, hm? Together or not at all. Smart woman, your mum.” Her eyes are full of affection but her fingers slide limply from his hair and he can _feel_ her mental connection with him weakening. “No, River, you have to hold on.”

 

Terror makes the words catch in his throat, a fierce desperation seizing his hearts and closing up his throat as he watches her slip away from him, helpless as ever to stop it. She is so like her namesake, fluid and inconstant, always slipping through his fingers. His River cannot be contained or held, no matter how desperately he tries to keep her with him always.

 

“Look at me, River. Please.”

 

She tries. God, he can see her fighting, if only for his sake, or maybe just to see him one last time, but she’s lost too much blood, and her only working heart is far too weak, beating overtime to make up for the loss of the other, trying to pump blood through her veins that she simply doesn’t have. River is a survivor, a fighter by nature, but this once, when it counts the most, it isn’t enough.

 

 _I love you_ is her last thought before the warmth of her beautiful, amazing, brilliant mind slips from his and is no more. The Doctor feels it keenly, like the deepest of losses, the detachment of a limb or the abrupt absence of sunlight. It is sudden agony, cold, vicious and unforgiving. Staggering under the weight of what he has lost for the second time – his River, his life, his hearts, safe from the Library and he should have looked after her, he should have worried, he should have gone after the girl himself, but he didn’t do anything and he’s lost her _againagainagain_ – he drops his face to River’s neck and clutches her curls in his fists, letting out an anguished howl that would chill even the most hardened of souls.

 

Around him, the battle that had raged only minutes ago has halted and everything is strangely, eerily silent. He can feel eyes of compassion, curiosity, and fear fixated on him but he does not and cannot care about these people or their troubles anymore. Not when he has lost everything. They are the same – grief-stricken and hollow-eyed with loss. He is a crippled old man and he cannot help them. He cannot even help himself.

 

He sniffles miserably, cupping River’s face in his hands and kissing her closed eyes, her forehead, the bridge of her nose, swallowing back a sob and despairing at how cold her skin already is. Only moments ago, she’d been so vibrant and alive – more alive than he’d even realized – his very own warrior goddess in evening wear, and now she’s gone. Only an empty shell remains.

 

Throat raw and eyes sore and swollen, the Doctor curls around his wife in the mud and smoothes her blonde hair from her forehead, matted ringlets that used to shine and bounce, that he used to bury his face in and think only _home_. His eyes drift over her profile, the remarkable face of the remarkable woman he has had the misfortune to lose not once, but twice, and can only wonder why. _Why_?

 

“River,” he whispers, soft and child-like, as if she’ll open her eyes and smirk at him, if only he asks nicely enough. But his contrary River never listens to him, especially not now.

 

It hits him suddenly that her eyes will never open again – they will no longer sparkle with mischief or blaze with anger at him, they will no longer look at him with humbling love and devotion. This River will never look at him again. But he still has more to come. He has to save her from the Library and look into those eyes, forever tainted now by how they look clouded with pain.

 

Why? Why would he save her, knowing what would happen? After years of grieving her while she was still alive, why would he work so hard to save her, knowing it wouldn’t matter? His anger at his older self grows with every passing moment. He should have warned him. Surely, if anything is worth rewriting time for, it’s River – stupid, brave, beautiful, stubborn River who refused to let him give even one of his lives for her. Never mind that she gave him all of hers, breathing life back into a tired old murderer she somehow saw the good in.

 

The Doctor raises his head with a ragged gasp that rattles in his chest as he remembers – lying on cold, hard steps in a hall in Berlin, River’s face the last thing he saw, and then darkness, nothing. River again. Golden light and a beaming smile. That first cold breath filling his lungs after death, River’s life force sizzling through his veins like a drug.

 

River Song raised him from the dead. It’s time to return the favor.

 

She’d been able to stop him while she was alive, forcing her body to reject his energy, but now – now it’s not up to her any longer. It’s his choice. And he will always choose her.

 

He scrambles to sit upright, hands already glowing. He heals her abdomen first; sealing the wound and knitting flesh back together. He places his hand over her heart next and when the wound closes, the damage repaired, her heart is whole again, the way she’s about to make both of his. Oh, she might leave at first; furious with him for sacrificing anything for her but she’ll come back. And then he’ll make her stay. Clara would love that – she adores River more than she likes him. He used to be miffed about that. Not anymore. And now, without the Library looming… he wonders how River feels about children. Not just children in general, but theirs. She’d love theirs, wouldn’t she? He thinks she would.

 

He stifles a delighted chuckle.

 

A family with River. Yes, he’d like that. 

 

But first thing’s first.

 

Looking down at his wife, he blinks away tears and whispers giddily, “You’re going to be _so_ angry.” He’s never looked forward to her fury quite so much before. He doesn’t care how hard she slaps him so long as she’s alive to do so.

 

Bending his head, he watches her face unblinkingly, eager to see the life flare back into her eyes. He brushes his lips softly over hers and watches as River gasps awake, dragged from the dark nothingness and back into the light. He laughs against her mouth, hearts soaring. She’s alive and safe – from the Library, from death – she is his and she is never leaving, not without him at her side. Together or not at all.

 

“Doctor?” Her eyes, at first filled with confusion, begin to widen in alarm. “No. You idiot, what are you doing?”

 

He beams through his tears, thumb sweeping over her cheek tenderly. “Hello sweetie.”


End file.
